


For the Wolverine

by DestielsDestiny



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men (Original Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: AU from x-ray machine scene, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Charles, Beast Hank McCoy, Blood and Gore, Charles Being Concerned, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Charles is a wellspring of compassion, Cherik Big Bang 2019, Erik Has Feelings, Erik has Issues, Fluff and Angst, Found Family Feels, Gen, Government Experimentation, Hank is Bamf, He's not actually present though, Healing, Hurt Logan, Logan Needs A Hug, Logan plays matchmaker, M/M, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Poor Charles, Protective Erik, Protective Erik Lehnsherr, Set during X-1, Surgery, William Stryker Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 11:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20308852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestielsDestiny/pseuds/DestielsDestiny
Summary: They realize a little late that maybe, just maybe, shoving an amnesiac veteran whose earliest semi-clear memory is of having horrific medical experiments conducted on him without his consent into a metal tube and loudly snapping x-rays of him wasn’t the best idea in the world.Or, how to reconnect with your occasionally homicidal-ex, by Charles F. Xavier.In which Hank is not a neurosurgeon, Erik is not a doctor, Charles is not a therapist, and Logan definitely isn’t a matchmaker.





	For the Wolverine

**Author's Note:**

> For CherikBB 2019  
Art by the wonderful Destiny_Rain_Evans.   
Post on tumblr: https://destinyrainevans.tumblr.com/post/187016826585/cover-art-for-grippedbydestielfevers-wonderful

Charles was never actually certified in first aid. Oh, he took the course, right enough. Several times.

It was always the passing part that he had difficulty with. This, Hank has attempted to explain to several different school board officials over the years, has nothing to do with Charles being in a wheelchair.

It also, he always stresses, has nothing to do with Charles’ skill level or ability in actual first aid.

He restrains himself from throttling said officials when they fail to understand this distinction.

Funnily enough, it is the same reaction all of the first aid instructors had.

Hank really hates people sometimes.

Thus, when Logan is pulled out of the x-ray machine, wild and flailing and covered in literal pools of blood, on paper, Charles is the least qualified person in the room to help him.

In practice, Charles is the only one of them with a hope in hell of being able to get close enough to even touch the feral, let alone staunch his bleeding.

It was Jean who smacked the button to retract the platform from the machine, her hand flicking out, a tongue depressor obligingly developing enough momentum to depress the switch with the necessary force.

It was Scott who skidded into the room just as the sparks the machine was giving off turned into flames with alarming rapidity.

It was Storm who pushed a cloud of fog at the machine, dropping the temperature as rapidly as she could, giving Scott time to grab the nearest fire extinguisher. Which douses the flames efficiently enough, but also manages to spray their already panicking house guest directly in the eyes.

Logan _screams_. His clams _snikt_ out, then in, then out, blood spurting from his knuckles, coating the floor and the walls and their chests as they attempt to calm him down.

The fog has spread to the corners of the room, gathering the thickest by the walls.

Thus, when Charles glides into the infirmary, despite his wheels moving fast enough to leave skid marks on the polished floor, his arrival is as much a surprise to the three would be rescuers as it is to their would be rescuee.

Who promptly roars, grabbing at his head, nearly taking out an eye in the process. Scott makes another grab for Logan’s shoulders, even as the Professor’s voice _blasts_ into all their heads.

_Stand back, all of you!_

With the reluctant alacrity of the students they once were, they all actually do it.

And somehow, they stay back, even as three hundred pounds of muscle and metal hurtle at Charles, metal swiping with terrifying accuracy at his head.

Which...is no longer in the way. Jean has never, ever doubted Professor Xavier’s ability to do _anything_ if he put his mind to it. But even she would not have bet on his ability to still _move _like that.

And that is as much down to his age as it his paralysis.

Logan’s claws _slam _into the ground, screeching with unearthly force. Logan _keens_.

And it is in that shout of pain, hoarse with so much agony, that Jean finally connects the dots.

Finally realizes that within those perfectly pointed shafts of deadly metal, lies living tissue. Lies bone and blood vessels and _nerves_.

From his position at the foot of his chair, Charles _moves_. Rolling and holding, his hands clamping down around the gushing wound on Logan’s neck where a claw struck a little too true.

Jean isn’t ever sure what Charles says to Logan to calm him down, _how_ he does it without receiving so much as a _scratch_.

But some how, between Logan’s howls turning to yowls and Storm’s fog becoming fluffy, soothing clouds, Charles’ shout turns to a whisper in their heads, his hands still clamped to arrest the blood flow, even as he uses his arms to hold, to caress, to sooth.

Jean kneels at the Professor’s shoulder, hands tentatively moving towards the pressure dressing Charles has just tied around Logan’s flank.

There is a twitch in response, almost spasmodic in its force, and blood spurts out, catching her across the face.

Charles’ face is grim with intensity, blood splashed across his forehead, dripping into his eyes.

His words, when they come, are as close to a command as any of them have ever heard him utter. And just a touch desperate in their urgency.

“I think it’s time we called Henry.”

xxx

They are all still on the floor when Hank arrives. Scott and Jean are huddled just out of swiping range, a veritable hospital emergency room’s worth of medical supplies arranged neatly about them.

Logan is shivering violently, half in Charles’ arms by this point, the two of them propped awkardly against one of the wheelchair’s wheels. Blood continues to stain the floor, the puddle turning into a lake before their horrified eyes.

Jean had begun to quietly speculate that Logan’s healing factor would allow for the man to replenish blood nearly as fast as he was losing it, but in the face of the feral’s continued whimpers, none of them had the heart to pursue the topic when she trailed off.

Ororo shows Hank in, their voices petering out at the sight before them. Hank pales visibly, despite his fur and sweater vest, his eyes growing older and sadder by the second.

He kneels on the edge of one of the pools of blood, one broad paw coming to rest gently against Charles’ knee. The Professor’s face is drawn and grey with the effort of keeping Logan semi-conscious and hopefully, semi-not-in-agony.

Hank breaths out softly at the sight of the claws, which twitch weakly as nostrils flare, the Beast’s scent hitting the feral full force. A weak sound emerges from his cyanotic lips, which was probably meant to be a growl of warning, but just comes out sound very, very young.

“One of Stryker’s, I presume?” Charles, when he finally opens his eyes, has never looked older.

“Thanks you for coming, Hank.” Other words, if they are exchanged, are not uttered aloud.

Logan has been talked _about_ enough for one lifetime. Of that, they are all in complete agreement.

xxx

Hank suggests an ultrasound, in the end. They need to find the source of the bleeding, which persists despite frequently changed pressure dressings practically mummifying Logan.

In the end, it had taken Scott, Hank, _and_ Jean to get Logan back onto a table. And then only with Charles basically attached to his temples, palms seemingly welded in place, brow furrowed, tears leaking slowly down both their faces.

Charles never shares what he saw, in those long moments, or what he said, to keep Logan calm enough to help him. And none of them ever have the heart, nor the stomach, to ask.

But x-rays are out, and so are most traditional sedatives, and Logan is still _bleeding_.

Hank gloves up, despite the healing factor seemingly rendering the chances of infection practically nil. Scott watches from a distance, his jaw clenched hard enough for his teeth to creak.

_What the _hell_ did they do to him_ runs through all their heads so loudly that Charles actually _begs_ them to stop.

Hank’s hand falters for a moment, the wand going still, even as it passes the feral’s ribcage. Or rather, what’s _left_ of it.

“Oh my stars and garters, those _butchers..._” Charles raises his head, but not his voice, “Henry, _please_...”

Jean seems not to hear either of them, her lips parted in horror as she stares at the image displaying from the probe to the screen. “Professor, his _ribs_.”

Charles gazes at them implacably, but his voice, his words, when they come, are choked and raspy, even as they were granite with certainty and surety, “They were too heavy...” _to allow him to breath_. Charles’ _doesn’t_ finish the thought. But it hardly needs to be voiced.

That is the point where Scott finally breaks down and leaves the room to be sick.

xxx

No one sleeps that night. Or the night after that. By the third day, Hank has run every test he conceivably can. Every test that both doctor _and_ patient will survive, at least.

He drops the results on the spare med bay table on the afternoon of the second day, not bothering to be quiet in his disgust. Logan is too weak by this point to care. But Hank still hates himself just a little, for his momentary callousness.

_Hank...it is all right._ Hank shuts his eyes, not able to bring himself to look at his long time mentor. Charles look like he’s aged years in the space of days, his face drawn and grey and wane with exhaustion, as emotional as it is physical.

“He’s allergic to it. To the Adamantium.” Hank swallows, his nails curling into a folder and tearing. “He’s allergic to it, and they injected it directly into his bones. It’s in his _marrow_.”

His eyes flicked to Logan’s squeezed shut ones, hands clenching with the supressed urge to kill, to maim, to _hurt_ those who hurt this fellow mutant. This stranger who is rapidly becoming _pack_ to the beast singing under his skin.

“They did this him...and it’s killing him.” Hank meets Charles’ eyes, finally. “They found a mutant who was designed by nature itself to survive any odds, and they’re _killing him_, Charles. They’re killing him from the inside out.”

Charles ran an absent hand through Logan’s wild hair, fresh lines of pain etching across his face with the gesture. Hank made an abortive move forward. Whether to reprimand or to sigh, he never finds out.

Charles speaks first. “Time we contacted Erik, I think.” And _that_ is what finally, finally makes Hank’s jaw drop in this whole mess of a situation.

xxx

“I can’t believe we’re even considering this. It’s ludicrous.” They’ve been arguing it back and forth for what feels like hours by now, nearly screaming at each other at times.

Hank bristles at Scott’s tone, as much as he knows it stems from concern and frustration, more than any intended insult. “Do you really think I _want_ to even consider this. You never saw what that man did to Charles, what his leaving did to _all of us_.” One large hand was flung towards the doorway to the side office, where Charles was once again curled around Logan’s shoulders, beads of sweat mixing with streams of blood to soak down Logan’s side and into the Professor’s sweatervest.

Recently, Logan has lost so much blood Hank had risked coaching the Professor through placing an IV. Which was exercise in repeated torture for all of them, as the healing factor kept pushing the damn thing out of his skin.

And because every time metal so much as _brushed_ him, Logan started to sob. The last time, he’d actually turned _towards_ Charles, rather than away, burying sweat and tear soaked cheeks in the Professor’s sweater vest and refusing to budge.

This whole thing was breaking Hank’s heart, inch by bloody inch.

Hank pointed fiercely at the door, at what lay beyond. “Charles is _exhausted_. He can’t hold on much longer, and the effort of trying will kill _both _of them if we’re not careful.”

Ororo, ever the voice of calm reason, stepped nearly between them. “How do we even know he’ll come?”

From the doorway, Jean’s voice cuts through Hank’s raspy, whispered, “Because it’s _Charles._”

“Because the Professor already asked him.” Which is when Hank remembers, when they all remember, somewhat sheepishly, that no amount of reinforced steel is helpful when arguing in the vicinty of the world’s most powerful telepath.

xxx

In the infirmary, the voices of his students a cacophony of angry noise despite the thick walls separating them, Charles Xavier closes his eyes, breaths deeply, and reaches for a mind that he has not felt in nearly three decades. Not properly.

_Erik...I need your help_.

Erik has once regarded Charles with the saddest, oldest eyes he had ever seen, and intoned words that for once, lack even the edge of a sarcastic, sardonic bite. “You can’t save everyone, old friend.”

Decades later, Charles was forced to acknowledge the wisdom of those words, how ever bitter their source.

But he would be truly damned, if he were ever, for even a single moment, to accept them.

xxx

The Professor never says precisely _what_ he said to convince Erik to come.

So none of them ever ask.

It is a moot point anyway, as Erik drops in that afternoon.

Literally. Via the ceiling.

Charles sits calmly in the hall and watches the metal girders holding up the walls rearrange themselves into a more safety-friendly position once more, before he turns to meet the eyes of his oldest friend, and greatest love. “Hello again, old friend.”

It isn’t clear which one of them said the words, and Hank gives out a long suffering sigh from the hallway. “You two can flirt later, when no one is bleeding to death.”

No one points out the obvious, that they do, in fact, have a front door.

Erik’s drama queen tendencies are something they’ve all long since gotten used to.

xxx

They might not know what Charles said to get him there, but they do know what he said to get him to _stay_.

“And precisely whose idea _was_ it to shove a Feral who had clearly been used as a lab rat into yet another lab and starting snapping pictures?” Erik’s voice was an artful cross between arid and incredulous, a tone Charles knew he had taken years to perfect, in order to make the person being addressed feel roughly an inch tall.

In this case, Charles knew they all deserved it. Hank did as well, if his blistering, blustering response was anything to go by. “Well, it wasn’t _my_ idea.” Jean pinked slightly, dropping her eyes to the floor.

Charles remained where he was, stationed at Logan’s head, alternating between resting his hands on the feral’s temples and stroking through his over-long hair, his shields wrapped as tightly as he could manage around the broken shards of Logan’s consciousness.

“Erik.” It was the first time he’d spoken in the entire conversation, and he only interjected now for Logan’s sake. One didn’t need the feral’s enhanced senses to smell the fresh blood in the air. “We were reckless and short sighted, undoubtedly, but the fact remains that Logan is a mutant in trouble. A mutant who has been horribly used and abused and hurt.” He swallows his next words, memories of sand and blood and bombs heavy in the air. _Hurt by humans_.

He couldn’t make himself say it, couldn’t make himself hurt Erik like that. Couldn’t make himself be that cruel. “Please, Erik, he needs our help. He needs _us._” But he wasn’t above begging. Charles couldn’t explain his instant connection to Logan, no more than he could explain the flashes of joy and wonder than mingled with the unimaginable pain Logan was feeling, every moment, every breath.

But he knew, somehow, that this mutant, this _man_, whom the entire world had given up on, he was worth fighting for. Worth trying to save.

And Charles would be damned before he stopped trying to save those who came to him for help.

“Erik...please.” The self-loathing that spiked in his mind was not his own, Erik’s eyes sorrowful as he slowly approached the table for the first time, truly looked at the man lying upon it for the first time. The reply, when it came, stole the breath from Charles’ lungs.

_Oh Charles, as if I could ever refuse you anything_. Except he could, and he had, and they both knew it. But after nearly thirty years of silence and unnatural emptiness where there should have been _Erik_, Charles was too damn joyful to do anything but wrap his mind around Erik’s, and hold on for as long as Erik would let him.

xxx

“Steady Henry, go a little slower over that one.” To Hank’s knowledge, Erik Magnus Lehnsherr has never attended medical school. As far as Hank knows, the man has never set foot on the grounds of any educational facility, besides the one one which they are currently standing.

Yet somehow, their haphazard half-surgery is being almost entirely run by the man who is also doubling as orderly, technician, and an entire team of nurses, all at the same time.

Hank moves the cautery with firm, slow pressure over the ragged wound in Logan’s left flank. Charles is literally shaking with the effort to keep Logan fully submerged, the black lines racing up and down his forearms confirming Hank’s worst suspicions about pain sharing and unlimited vastness of Charles’ gifts.

“I am going to eviscerate William Stryker.” The words are surprising in only one aspect. They come from _Charles_. Erik shifts a hand towards Charles for but a moment, and Hank suspects that if magnetic fields can form a caress against someone’s cheek, Charles is currently on the receiving end of such a gesture.

Brutal emergency surgery as relationship counselling. The ridiculous thought won’t leave his head, and Charles shoots him a slightly withering look in response.

Feeling all of twenty-two for the first time in decades, Hank ducks his head and focuses on the next wound.

xxx

_Crash! _Hank looks about ready to have a heart attack, as yet another piece of rather expensive equipment crashes against the wall and crumples into a tiny ball of metal scraps.

Charles merely follows its path with his eyes, and gives a philosophical shrug to Hank’s incredulous glance. Thus far, Erik has refrained from destroying anything actually essential to the task at hand, namely, treating Logan. And Charles is confident that trend will continue.

Hank doens’t appear to share is certainty, passing over to Charles side and hissing out an urgent, “How on earth does he know what we can spare and what we can’t?!” _Crash! _Something that looks rather like their spare ultrasound machine soars past their heads.

Charles watches it go by with an air of weary acceptance decades in the making. “Well Hank, he had to have something to do in all those years of solitary confinement.” Hank runs the gamut from appalled to incredulous rather quickly. “The US government let Erik Lenhsherr have access to medical textbooks?!”

The crashing paused long enough for Erik to execute an elegant spin and regard Hank with a raised eyebrow, “Those in power often underestimate the dangers of giving those under their rule the means to acquire knowledge.” With that somewhat enigmatic declaration, the crashing resumed.

Hank’s eyes found the serial number punched into the piece of metal currently gleaming through blood and puss on Logan’s forearm, and couldn’t find it within himself to begrudge Erik the equipment. “I’ll go order some replacements.”

He swept out of the room without taking a single order form with him, but neither Erik nor Charles had the heart to comment. Charles ran a gentle hand through Logan’s blood matted hair. Erik when back to crushing things into metal balls.

On the table, Logan twitched in agony, lost in a world of torture, a world they were all now intimately familiar with.

Erik finally stopped for a moment, his chest heaving, his eyes burning. The metal in the digits branded across his forearm pulsed as it hadn’t in years, in _decades_.

“Erik.” Charles sounds _wrecked_, his voice thick with tears. Erik knows that if, when, he can bring himself to finally face his old friend again, those blue eyes will be shot through with red, and puffy beyond reason.

Projecting one of Logan’s disjointed memories into all their heads had been the largest slip in Charles’ control that Erik had ever witnessed. It had nearly knocked them all unconscious, such was the force of Logan’s agony, of _Charles_’ agony.

For a long moment, all Erik had been able to think about was a bullet rending through flesh and bone, the thump of his mother’s body hitting the floor echoing in his ears for all eternity.

Too weak with memories and exhaustion to move under his own power, Erik floated himself over to the head of the table, wrapping around Charles’ slumped form without hesitation.

Charles buried his face in the crook of Erik’s neck and _shook._

In the heart wrenching silence that followed, punctuated only by the occasional beep of machinery and odd sob of anguish, Erik gathered the love of his life every closer.

And as sleep finally creeped in to claim them both, his hand found its way to brush against their patient’s forehead in something that, once upon a time, might have been called _kind_.

It had been a long, _long_ time since Erik had been _kind_.

_מיין ליב, ליב יינגל _

Her dear, kind boy. That was what his mother used to call him.

Charles’s voice in his head was heavy with sleep. But the words...seemed to echo for an eternity.

_Your mother would be proud of the man you became, Erich. _

xxx

Their patient wakes up on a Thursday.

“Logan?” Dark eyes wandered towards the sound of Charles’ voice for a moment, before wandering away again. Charles reached out carefully, setting his hand against Logan’s cheek in a gentle caress. “Logan, can you hear me?”

From the doorway, Erik is a pillar of perfectly coiffed suit and tightly coiled tension. “Logan...” Charles lets his voice trail off. The eyes remain as vacant as they were moments before. Hank swallows audible to their left, checking the equipment, vitals and brain function. “He’s awake, his vitals are as good as can be expected, there’s brian activity, but...” He trailed off.

Charles felt his shoulders slump, even as Erik fixed his gaze on the middle distance and refused to meet any of their eyes.

Hank looked from one to the other and back again, “We saved his life...” Erik chucked then, deep and bitter. “How very noble of us.”

Under Charles’ palm, a single tear worked its way down Logan’s cheek. His eyes remained as unfocused as ever.

Behind his strongest shields, Charles allowed himself a moment’s despair. Sometimes, wounds were too deep to heal. Charles knew that, better than almost anyone. He closed his eyes, his fingers gripping Logan’s limp hand hard enough to bruise a human.

A hand landed on his shoulder. Charles tore his eyes open, surprise and increduilty warring to suffice his face. “We will figure it out Charles. We always do.” _We_. Charles swallowed, long and hard and _hopeful_.

He scarcely dared to think it, never mind say it, but...For the first time in decades, Charles took a leap _towards_ his oldest friend, and reached out. _Erik...is that hope I hear in your voice?_

The mind that met his own was older, more world weary, if that was possible, and yet, somehow, no longer as bitter as it had been, all those years ago. _My dear Charles, if you insist on continuing to pursue your never ending quest for hope...the very least I can do is help you. _

A weathered hand closed over Charles’ where it held Logan’s, fingers interlocking against the ridges of scar tissue across the feral’s knuckles.

And for the first time since 1962, Charles Xavier felt truly, deeply _happy_.

xxx

“Logan, slow down.” Charles nearly careened down the stairs, his chair jerking suddenly as Erik caught up, his power slamming the wheels back to the oak paneling of the upper landing. Charles himself was only saved from pitching head first over the bannister by their quarry leaping nimbly back up onto said bannister, pausing just long enough to ensure Charles was safely in his seat before executing a backflip off the railing and dashing for the front door.

Erik and Charles exchanged an incredulous look. “Well, at least your stray wolverine has an altruistic streak. How delightful for you, Charles.” The caustic bite of the words was utterly ruined by their twin grins, as Erik gripped the sides of the chair and flew them both over the bannister in pursuit of their errant charge.

Hank met them at the door, actually somewhat short of breath. “At least when he was bleeding to death every five minutes we had less problems keeping track of him!” Ororo snorted in acerbic amusement as she sprinted up to join them, offering a stinging quip of her own, “Wrangling actual children isn’t this difficult.”

Wolverine Wrangling, as Bobby had suggested they call it and had somehow stuck despite Charles’ best efforts, was proving to be a fulltime occupation. To date, Logan had escaped from the infirmary (six times), the mansion (four times), and the grounds (twice). No of them were entirely sure where he was attempting to run off too, but between his unstable condition, feral episodes, and continued lack of speech, none of them were particularly interested in Erik’s initial suggestion of simply _letting him go_.

Not even Erik. He only said it, he insists, in anticipation of what would unfold.

It did not take a genius, after all, to add feral mutant with a metallic skeleton togehter with mutant who can control metal and get=Erik is the ideal Logan catcher.

And despite the time commitment involved, Erik actually had no problem with _catching_ Logan. It was figuring out what to do with him afterwards that was a problem.

The first time, he tried simply staying where he’d caught him until he gets tired, or Charles shows up to _make_ him tired. This worked precisely as long as Charles was willing to _let_ it work. So, all of once.

_Making_ Logan follow him around was out, even for Erik. It rather turned his stomach at the very thought, that.

Carrying around a chess board and playing to himself whenever they got stuck in awkward places was semi-successful, if only because Charles inevitably came over to join the game.

Which made it rather more successful. Which is how Erik finally figured out what Logan was _doing_.

He was in the midst of flicking Charles’ queen to his side of the board when the realization struck. The gesture went wide, sending the piece careening into the lake, for all that it was twenty odd metres way.

“Charles, I do believe your little _pet_ is playing _match maker!_”

Charles blinked slowly at the ripples that were all that remained of the white queen from his favourite chess set. _Really Erik, that was rather obvious, was it not?_

Erik fought the urge to fling the remaining pieces at Charles’ head.

From his position stretched almost lazily at their feet, Logan had the audacity to _purr_.

xxx

Somehow, despite the frequent medical checks and intermittent surgeries, Logan and Hank become friends. Or, whatever it means when a non-verbal feral keeps following the blue, furry school physician around.

It does mean that once in a blue moon, Erik actually gets Charles _and_ their bed to himself for the night, so he is far from complaining.

But when one morning at breakfast, the two arrive trailed by several balls of squeaking fur, Erik tries very hard to draw the line. He gets as far as “Enough strays already-” When two of the puppies promptly jump on his head and start licking him.

They are assisted in this endeavour by Logan, who actually _crawls into Erik’s lap and licks his hand. _Wolverine’s apparently had _excellent_ puppy dog eyes. Even better than puppies, even.

Erik _melts_. Across the table, Charles _laughs_. It is warm and fresh and clear. It is the most beautiful sound Erik has heard in thirty years.

They keep the puppies. They also keep Logan.

xxx

It takes eleven months for Logan to finally, truly make an apperance in their lives.

“Trust me Bubs, neither of you idiots is fooling anyone with the whole eye-sex across the room thing.” Erik dropped his fork. The metal bounced off the table, arched end over end over end, and landed with a quiver in the floor by Logan’s feet. He gazed at it for a long moment, then poked it with an inquiring claw.

A thin trail of blood leaked from around the claw, but Logan’s face was as pain free as his mind, and Charles had to try very, very hard not to start crying at the sight.

Hank finished choking on his orange juice, his blue beard rapidly turning a most interesting shade of purple. “_That’s_ the first thing you have to say?” The _really? _hung in the air.

Logan twirled the fork between two claws and shrugged for a moment. “Ya telling me you don’t want to just shout at them to kiss already or something there Blue?” Erik turns an interesting shade of red. Charles suspects it compliments his own pink hue nicely.

Hank sputters up more juice.

Logan flicks his eyes down then, seemingly finding the table top fascinating. His words, when they come, finally reflect the lack of speech in their roughness. But also, in their softness, the lack of _pain_.

“Thank ye. For helpin’ me.”

Erik’s heart breaks. They all swallow awkwardly in the face of the emotions choking the room.

All of them except Charles, naturally.

Charles...well, Charles does what Charles has always done best.

Logan thrashes in the hug for a moment, his knees skidding into Charles’ footrests, his arms waving in the air.

Watching them, Erik feels his heart break all over again. It is hard to look at Logan at the best of times, the memories of the last months ripping open wounds Erik has spent a lifetime trying to ignore. But in this moment, he has never reminded Erik more of himself, twenty-six years old and flailing in Charles’ arms, the frigid waters of the Atlantic threatening to drown them both, his lungs burning as much with hope as with a lack of oxygen.

It is a surprisingly hard thing, finally realizing one truly isn’t alone in the world. Isn’t a lost cause. Isn’t a monster. At least not in the eyes of Charles Xavier.

Erik remembers wanting to drown in that feeling, in Charles’ eyes, in the warmth of those hugs.

Most days, more days than less these days, he still does.

xxx

They never discuss whether Erik is staying.

He simply never leaves.


End file.
